


End of the Night

by 888mph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Genderbending, civilian!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/888mph/pseuds/888mph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of night, when the only ones left are the ones too drunk and that have nowhere to be, it's the trash they want to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> So, behold the only salvageable bit of my failed DeanCasBigBang. Hopefully I'll end up writing a sequel, which will give me the story I wanted. Just not the readers I'd get with a Bang. Pity, since this is the best thing I've ever written for this fandom. At least now that I've got out of my writing funk, so it's time to rewrite the first chapters of the HS AU and resume that thing.  
> This comes with a soundtrack and a hastily put-together CD cover (NSFW) near the end.
> 
> The SPN characters and their gender-bending versions don't belong to me and I'm not making any profit with it. The same with the songs, Egon Schiele's painting and Mini Andén, who I cast as girl!Dean.

The Green Room is a classy place. Deanna is not being sarcastic when she calls the strip-joint classy: each leather armchair costs more than one year rent of her flat, some of the whisky bottles in the top shelves should probably belong in a museum, and in the smoke room in the back you can ask for illegal Cuban cigars if you pay the right price. Most of the place's patrons are high-end businessmen who sometimes like to end their meetings in a familiar place with beautiful naked women in the background.

The evening usually starts with Bella, whose number is some prop-filled dance to the sound of cellos. It's burlesque, she says, because she'd never do anything as vulgar as striptease. On weekends they have Lisa, the bendiest dancer Deanna has ever seen, who presents a show that would probably be more at place with the Cirque du Soleil. Deanna sometimes wonders how something as simple and down-to-earth as striptease became so douchey.

But at the end of night, when the only ones left are the ones too drunk and that have nowhere to be, it's the trash they want to see. That’s why Deanna is there, or so Mr. Adler told her when he hired her.

Deanna watches from the backstage as Meg, all black leather and heavy bass lines, sways. She honestly can't see how she's trashier than a meth-head who strips to score the next dose. The act is an European thing, Mr. Adler would say, it's decadence, not like some pretty airhead like herself could understand and Deanna feels like spitting in his face.

But she doesn't, because the pay is really good for someone with no marketable skills like herself. So she shrugs and looks past the dancing skank and into the crowd to access what the night has in store for her.

And that's when Deanna sees her.

There are a few types of women who frequent a strip bar outside ladies night: the businesswomen who enjoy being one of the guys and smile indulgently into their whiskies as their colleagues enjoy the show. The cute married women who want to spice up their sex life and come in looking for pointers while giggling and being too nice. The brides-to-be looking for their fiancés, because they told them of course they should have a bachelor's night, but refrained to mention that in doing so the marriage would be called off.

Deanna watches as this one strides from the front door.

She looks as much a businesswoman as all the other patrons in this place, with her black pencil skirt, her crisp white shirt and absurdly high heels, if it weren't for the messy bun her hair is in. But unlike the other businesswomen that have come in, she's alone and seems to actually be interested in the show.

For Deanna this couldn't be better, after all these are the kinds of patrons she loves the best, but never has: the ones she's actually interested in. 

When Meg's number finally finishes, Mr. Adler announces the last show of the night and Deanna hears the first chords to CCR's 'Suzie Q'.

She hops on stage, holding her pigtails, smiling and swaying her hips. She hopes no one's realizing she's pretty much copying the Playboy bunnies scene in _Apocalypse Now_ , but there isn't much she can do, when Mr. Adler insists she dress like Daisy Duke.

One twirl around the pole and Deanna stops to sway right in front of the woman, staring at her. The woman's gaze travels from Deanna's sandals to her denim short shorts, the plaid shirt knotted under her boobs and stops at her eyes.

Obviously the woman's own eyes had to be huge and deep and from a glassy color that Deanna can't see from stage.

The song ends surprisingly fast and once backstage Deanna fights to get back in her clothes, hoping that the woman decided to stay for more than the last dance.

It sounds absurd, but for someone who works in the adult entertainment industry, Deanna gets laid a little too little. It doesn't help that most of the Green Room's clientele is male, nor that when she leaves the place late in the night the last thing she wants is to walk into another stuffy, dark bar. She did entertain the idea of dating one of the other dancers – Lisa, maybe, she certainly has looked at Deanna with want in her eyes – but dating coworkers is never a good idea. So, yeah, maybe Deanna’s a bit too excited about Pretty Eyes outside, but who can blame her? A girl can only go so far on her own.

Deanna feels like jumping up down when she leaves the backstage and sees the woman sitting prettily on a bar stool, a beer in her hand. She stops to assess her for a second, because suddenly she's not sure whether Pretty Eyes is ignoring the creeps trying to hit on her or whether she is truly interested in the ceiling's decoration. Maybe she's a tourist who ended up in the Green Room by mistake? If she takes out a camera and starts snapping pictures, Deanna is officially throwing in the towel.

“Hey,” Deanna says softly, putting herself in the woman's line of sight. The woman’s head snaps suddenly in Deanna's direction and, oh, her eyes are huge and blue, deep, not doll-like and empty. “Saw you enjoying the show. Wanna buy me some of what you're having?” Lame, she knows, but they're all adults here and in a strip-joint; it's not like any of them are looking for eternal love. Unless she really is a misguided tourist.

Pretty (and big and blue) Eyes gives her a once-over. Deanna leans against the bar, giving her her best grin.

“How much for a private dance?”

Deanna blinks. She didn't expect the woman to be so straight to the business, but hey! Extra money and hopefully some quality time. After all, security only checks the VIP-room if the dancer wants it and while there can't be any sex on the premises, most girls don't say no when their favorite clients get touchy-feely.

“Sixty bucks,” Deanna tells her, probably a little too eager (especially when it's that pricey, but again: classy place), but it's not like the woman knows if it's all a number or not.

The woman nods and slides off the bar stool. Deanna holds out her hand, palm up, a smile on her lips as she looks at her from under her lashes. The woman stares at her hand for a moment, head cocked to the side, seemingly unsure what to do. But then she holds Deanna's hand, grabs her drink, and follows her to the VIP-room.

Just as the woman sits on one of the room's velvet lazy-chairs, Led Zeppelin's 'Lemon Song' starts playing. That's Deanna's go-to track for a lapdance, so it's not like she can blame the DJ. But, come on, the lyrics are so obviously about a guy coming, she has to bite the inside of her cheek to not start laughing.

She walks slowly to the woman and stops to hover above her, fingering the lace of the pink bra peaking from her plaid shirt.

“Looking for anything special tonight, sweetheart?”

“Not really,” the woman says flatly, taking a sip from the beer and placing the glass on the mirrored side-table. Deanna's heart sinks a little and she starts to feel self-conscious. She does notice the woman's voice, which isn't being drowned by the noise outside now and is dark and amazing. “I only want you to keep my mind off work and wanting to kill a man.”

Oh. Okay, that's a bit more intense than Deanna was looking for and decidedly scarier than her usually jobs, but they're here now, so she better get to work.

She lowers herself slowly until she's straddling the woman, one knee on each side of the woman's hips. The woman straightens herself just a fraction, hands twitching at her sides, head tilting back so she can look Deanna in the eyes.

Deanna can't help but grin, taking what she believes is a hint. She slides closer, licking her lips, shaking her head in time with the music, taunting the woman with the promise of a kiss that seems to never come.

But the moment her lips do touch, the woman freezes and pushes Deanna off her.

“Ow!” Deanna squeaks at the sharp pain on her tailbone when she hits the ground.

“I'm sorry,” the woman says, getting up and not even checking on her. “This is not working for me.” With that, she leaves the VIP-room with Deanna on the ground, frustrated and mortified.

Deanna scrambles to her feet, glaring to the door that closed behind the woman. She unties the knot in her shirt and buttons it up instead.

It's not the first time a woman has turned her down, of course, but never like this and certainly never after having paid money to see her naked booty. Maybe there was a reason for it and intellectually, Deanna knows nothing about her actually scared the woman away.

But that doesn't keep her from feeling embarrassed and wondering if something is seriously wrong with her.

Which is why she runs to the backstage to grab her bag and put her leather jacket over her dancing attire, so she can leave this place as soon as possible for the night.

Of course, when she gets outside the Green Room, the woman is still there.

Deanna ducks her head and makes to get away to the parking plot without her noticing her, when a commotion makes her look: the woman is wrapping her trenchcoat tight around herself and trying to ignore the catcalls and rude remarks the patrons leaving the bar are throwing her way. Deanna stops in her tracks and tries to tell herself that it has nothing to do with her, that she should go home and have some sleep, but that goes completely against her instincts.

Instead, she takes a deep breath and walks to the woman.

“Hey,” her voice makes the woman look and blush slightly when recognition dawns on her. “Are you waiting for someone?”

The woman shifts in her place. “I'm just trying to get a cab to go home,” she says.

Deanna snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that! Cabs never go this way and especially not at this hour.” She looks back at the group of drunken perverts looking their way. “Listen, do you need a ride anywhere? It's okay, it's just a sister helping another sister out,” she adds when the woman gives her a look. “It's really not safe for you here.”

The woman pinches her lips for a moment, eyes squinting, but then she takes a deep breath and nods. “All right,” she says. And then, softer, “thanks.”

Deanna only shrugs. They don't talk as they walk to her car.

Once the car, a '67 Impala, is rolling under them (big and the type of car that makes you lock the doors if it stops next to you at night), Deanna decides to break the silence.

“You gonna tell me your name?” She thinks better of it. “If you want to, that is.”

The woman observes her for a heartbeat. “Castiel,” she finally says, and really? “You?”

“Deanna.”

The woman tilts her head. “It's that your real name?”

“Of course it's my real name! What's that supposed to mean?” The woman has some nerve: she says her name is Castiel and thinks that a name like Deanna is not real.

“I'm sorry, I was under the impression that... uh, people in your line of work,” she chooses the words carefully, “always go by assumed names. And since the announcer back at the club said Deanna when you were performing...”

Deanna shakes her head, but smiles. “Mr. Adler – that's my boss, Mr. Adler – doesn't allow artistic names, says we'd choose them really corny. He likes that we all have solid all-American names. Says it's a way to keeps us classy. Even someone like me.”

The woman – Castiel – doesn't say anything at that. Instead chooses to stare at Deanna unflinchingly.

“What?” Deanna asks her, taking the eyes of the road for a second.

“What do you mean by someone like you?”

Deanna shrugs. “You saw the other dancers. Next to them I'm trash.” 

The light turns red as they approach a cross and Deanna brings the car to a stop.

“All your colleagues left before you and passed me by,” Castiel says softly, her voice cool but kind. “None of them spared me a second glance, let alone offered help like you did, even though I had been rude to you. That hardly seems like trash to me.”

The meaning behind her words and the contrast they make to Castiel's earlier behavior leaves Deanna stunned, staring at her. Castiel stares back with that unnerving gaze that seems to be the norm with her.

A small yellow bug behind them honks their horn loudly, telling Deanna the light just turned green. She jumps in her seat and hits the gas. At her side, Castiel just turns her eyes back to the road calmly.

“Turn here,” she says a few moments later.

They arrive at the gates of one of those fancy closed communities, full of guards, where mere mortals like Deanna shouldn't be allowed to set foot in. The car's headlights give the gates a pearly shine and Deanna has to shake her head at the image in her mind. A man in a uniform approaches them by the driver's side and peeks inside, frowning.

“Hello, Joshua,” Castiel says, leaning into Deanna's personal space and looking at the man through her window.

“Miss Shurley!” Joshua says with a smile of recognition. He points a remote control at the gates, which open with a groan, then he waves them goodbye as the Impala rolls inside the community.

They come to a halt at one of the smallest houses. Of course, the house is small only when compared to the others around it. All Deanna sees are sleek lines and massive horizontal windows stretching over two stories.

“Would you like to come inside?” Castiel says all of the sudden. “I was really rude to you at the club, in a way that was totally uncalled for. The least I can do is offer you something to drink.”

Deanna shrugs and puts the Impala in park. She's not the type to say no to free booze. Plus it's not like Castiel stopped being hot in any way.

The house's entry hall is probably larger than the measly study Deanna calls home. It’s an open space lit by the full moon shining through the windows and a skylight filling the entire ceiling. Large stairs in the same exotic wood as the floor circle two of the walls and end at an opening on the wall upstairs. Under the second flight of stairs there's a wooden wall with a hidden door that Deanna guesses is the guest bathroom. Deanna follows Castiel down a second, smaller flight of stairs and into the immense living room with huge ceilings. The space is lit by the moon reflecting on a lake outside and coming through a massive window that occupies the entire opposite wall.

Castiel doesn't bother turning on the lights and walks to the kitchen area, separated from the living area by a modern fireplace with a black marble base.

“Whisky?” She asks.

“Sure. On the rocks, please,” Deanna answers, taking in the place. It's sparsely furnished, the center piece being a wide and painfully modern black leather couch. Above it hangs a painting of two dead looking women making out, one pale with black hair, another more tanned, with brown, blondish hair. Well, isn't that a coincidence?

“Egon Schiele,” Castiel says, appearing at Deanna's side out of nowhere and handing her a whisky with ice, while her own is neat.

“Wha—”

“The artist of that painting,” she adds, a hint of pride in her voice.

“That's nice,” Deanna says, a bit stupidly. It still looks like two zombie dykes to her.

Castiel plops herself in the middle of the couch and downs her whisky in one go. Deanna twirls the liquid in her glass, listening as the ice cubes clang against each other in the awkward silence stretching between the two women.

“So...” Deanna tries and Castiel looks at her. “What happened in your job that made you want to kill a guy and hide in a strip joint? If you don't mind my asking.”

“My firm won a case on a stupid technicality.”

A lawyer, then.

“Uh, isn't that a good thing?”

“Not when your client is accused of raping his illegal maid's little girl,” Castiel answers, bluntly.

Oh.

Castiel sighs, pained, rubs a hand over her face and looks up at the ceiling. “This is not what I went into law for!”

“Then why don't you leave?”

“What?”

“If you don't like the clients your firm gets, why don't you leave the firm?”

Castiel gives her a small, sad smile. “Because I messed up when I was in college, did some regrettable things and… _they_ helped me out. If I were to leave now when I still owe them... Let’s just say that wouldn't come down well.”

Deanna nods, getting that Castiel is stuck in her job.

“Can I dance for you?” She says and immediately regrets it, kicking her lack of brain-to-mouth filter.

Castiel blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Earlier you wanted me to keep your mind from killing that guy.” Deanna shrugs. “It's not that I don't think he doesn't deserve a bullet at least in the nads, if not the head. But I'd rather you didn't go to jail for that.” It's true. Deanna likes Castiel. She likes that she apologized quickly for being a bitch and invited her to her place, even though everything about her is so fancy and Deanna is... Well, she's what she is. 

Deanna likes what Castiel showed of herself so far, that she's not hammer, that she doesn't do whatever her superiors tell her to do to earn money without questioning it. She doesn’t roll over and accept every injustice.

Deanna likes especially the way Castiel looks at her, even if she doesn't agree with that vision.

She wishes she could sit down and listen to Castiel vent about work. She wishes she was smart enough to offer advice and help her not feel so obviously frustrated.

But the only thing Deanna can do more or less is dance. And if that will help keep Castiel's mind of work, then she'll dance for her.

“Yes,” Castiel breathes out.

Deanna licks her lips, feeling more self-conscious than she ever feels shaking her bare nipples at a room full of men. Because this is different. This feels intimate. This is actually _her_ dancing. Being a stripper puts a wall between her and the audience—but here between the two of them and under the dim light reflected on the lake outside, there is no such wall, no such pretense.

She walks to the bookcase where Castiel's sound-system stays. The iPod with its fancy dock or whatever is off-limits because Deanna is old-fashioned and would probably manage to set the thing on fire. Instead she looks at Castiel's CD collection, hoping to find something she can dance to.

Most of Castiel's music choices are weird or every bit as modern as her house. She stops to wonder what the hell The Throat-Singers of Something-or-Other-that-she-can't-pronounce can possibly be, but then she sees a burned CD, with 'The Doors' written in a pointy, slanted cursive. After a quick search of the back of the case, she finds 'The End of The Night'. It's not a particularly long song, but the beat is right and she'll have to make do in just under three minutes.

She slots the CD in the stereo and takes a deep breath as the first notes of Ray Manzarek's keyboard fill the room.

It doesn't take long for Deanna to be just in her pink panties, her hands in her hair, letting it flow between her fingers, now free of the ridiculous pigtails. She looks at Castiel, who is staring right back at her, eyes wide and lips parted. She straightens her legs, thighs pressed together, and crosses them at the ankles, the red of her shoe soles the only true spot of color in the half light. With a shaky breath, Castiel shifts in her seat and Deanna feels the telltale dip in her lower belly in response.

She never went full monty at the club, but this is not the Green Room. This is her. So she hooks her thumbs in her panties now starting to get wet, pulls them down and steps out of them. Deanna pads barefoot and naked until she's standing in front of Castiel and reaches down behind the other woman’s head to pull at the elastic band and free her hair. Soft dark curls fall on Castiel's shoulders, framing her face. She presses her cheek minutely against Deanna's forearm.

Deanna sinks slowly to her knees, palms sliding up Castiel's legs and pushing her pencil skirt up, until she reveals her underwear. It's black and soft with the barest hint of fine lace, and Deanna is glad she's already discarded her own—it was too shiny by comparison with bright colors and bold lace. Castiel raises her hips, eyes never leaving Deanna's, allowing her to pull her panties down her legs. Then she hooks a foot behind Deanna's back, pulling her close. Deanna wants to laugh because of course a girl who wears heels that high would be pushy in bed.

With her left hand, Deanna reaches between Castiel’s thighs, parting them, her fingers combing through her trimmed curls before she dips her head to lick Castiel’s clit. She hears a loud gasp coming from above and Castiel almost arches completely of the couch, her thighs squeezing Deanna's head between them.

Deanna grabs Castiel's hip with her left hand to still her, her right hand shooting up to grope one of Castiel's small breasts. Castiel grabs the hand on her breast, her breath coming in shuddering gasps, and slides her hand to pull lightly at Deanna's hair, just enough to ground her until her legs spasm and she lets a low breathy moan.

That's when she cups the back of Deanna's head and pulls her up, leaning down to catch her lips between her own as Deanna scrambles to straddle Castiel's hips. Deanna whimpers into the kiss as she feels her pulling her tightly against herself, one hand reaching to fuck her with two fingers, while the thumb presses just below her clit, enough to not overwhelm Deanna. She licks a path down Deanna's throat down to her right nipple and bites down, the arm around her waist holding her in place. And that's enough to send Deanna toppling over, already coiled tight from before, the buzz starting at her toes and snapping.

Later, they lie on the couch, not caring for the leather sticking to their damp skin, their positions somewhat mimicking the two women in the oh-so-important painting above them. 

Deanna must have dozed off, because she comes to and sees Castiel, wide awake and looking at her.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Deanna says.

Castiel tilts her head, the movement awkward in her current position and the leather of the couch squeaking loudly. From the speakers comes Jim Morrison's voice singing about a thousand girls, a thousand thrills. “Why do you work in that place?” Castiel asks, as bluntly as she seems to be in everything she does. “Don't take me wrong, but I don't think your boss treats you as you deserve.”

“I think you think too highly of me,” Deanna answers with a snort.

Castiel raises one eyebrow. That stare feels like it goes right into Deanna's soul. “Do you really believe so?”

“My little brother is in law school,” Deanna finally says after a moment of silent. “Stanford, with a full-ride scholarship and everything. Brightest kid I've ever met. The kindest, too. He didn't deserve all the shit that got thrown our way as we were growing up. And the Green Room pays well, despite all the crap, so I send him all the extra money I make to help him.”

“And what does he say about you helping him with money from a place like that?”

Deanna doesn't answer right away. Instead she presses a knee between Castiel's leg and pushes up, making her sigh.

“What he doesn't know doesn't hurt him,” Deanna whispers before kissing her again.

The End.

 

  


[1\. Cowboy Junkies - My Wild Child  
](http://www.youtube-mp3.org/#v=xyeXJB8KO-8)

  
[2\. Creedence Clearwater Revival - Suzie Q](http://www.youtube-mp3.org/#v=1mxaA-bJ35s)   


  
[3\. Led Zeppelin - The Lemon Song](http://www.youtube-mp3.org/#v=Zyhu2ysqKGk)   


  
[4\. The Doors - End Of The Night](http://www.youtube-mp3.org/#v=OjY3nfvkJ0Y)   


  
[5\. The Doors – The Crystal Ship](http://www.youtube-mp3.org/#v=jq9IhOhQt40)   


  
[6\. Rasputina - Wish You Were Here (Pink Floyd cover)](http://www.youtube-mp3.org/#v=Eipqj_BuaAY)   



End file.
